


Holding On

by Jain



Category: England Series - K. J. Charles, Think of England - K. J. Charles
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Third Person, Past Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/pseuds/Jain
Summary: Daniel is buried.
Relationships: Archie Curtis/Daniel da Silva
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



Daniel barely felt it as he was shoved onto the hard stone floor, as his arms were tugged ungently to either side of a stalagmite and lashed into place. Overwhelming everything else was the pit at the edge of the room, with its terribly inadequate man-made wall that was all that saved anyone from falling into its depths.

He'd screamed when Holt had shown it to him, taunting him with it, his firm grip on Daniel's arm both reassurance and threat. He hadn't even known he was screaming until the sound had echoed around the chamber and Holt had laughed in response.

"We'll leave you here the rest of the day," Holt said, cutting through Daniel's shuddering memories of that moment. "Maybe _then_ you'll be ready to talk."

Daniel's head swam. He couldn't. He _couldn't_. He knew better than to beg for mercy, but he found himself staring up at Holt and Armstrong in mute desperation. Something hit him on the crown of the head--a drop of water from the ceiling of the cave. It trickled coldly down the back of his head. Daniel couldn't react, couldn't speak, couldn't _think_.

Armstrong looked obnoxiously pleased with himself; Holt had a small frown on his face. The frown cleared suddenly, and Holt added, "Not that you'll even know it's day. Down here, it's pitch black at all hours. Too far from the surface of the earth for the sun's rays to reach. And of course we won't be leaving you a lamp."

Daniel whimpered involuntarily, and Holt nodded, satisfied. He tapped Armstrong on the shoulder, and they left. Daniel somehow managed not to plead for them to return, but he watched the retreating glow of the lamp with superstitious dread. The roof of the cave was pressing down on him already, when he could see with his own eyes that it was at least a dozen feet between him and the nearest stalactite. How would it feel when he couldn't see that anymore?

The last of the light slipped away, and Daniel moaned in despair.

Another drop of water fell, startling him from his incoherent misery. The cave closed in around him, and the pit yawned open beside him, and Daniel was alone and buried.

* * *

Were the drops of water coming more frequently? The cave roof couldn't be collapsing; that was a completely irrational fear. He _knew_ that. But the stalactite above him could be lengthening, growing down to meet him. They did that. That's what a stalactite _was_. And every drop of water that struck Daniel was carrying a little bit of sediment, trailing wetly down his body. Tiny bits of earth entombing Daniel's body within the deeper tomb of the cave, turning him into just an extension of the stalagmite at his back. A tumorous growth on the cold stone. Eventually, the stalactite above and the stalagmite below would fuse together, and Daniel would be encased within their awful embrace.

There were tears running down his face now, each carrying a miniscule bit of salt to join the minerals from the cave. His own body working to turn him into stone. He breathed shallowly through his mouth and tried to stem the flow of tears, but they wouldn't stop.

* * *

The drops of water hadn't turned Daniel to stone yet, but there'd been enough of them to wet him through. He'd started shivering at some point. He remembered the hot feeling of tears running down his cheeks and almost missed it, but he'd stopped crying some time back. He didn't know why; there certainly wasn't anything _less_ to cry about now. But even thinking that wasn't enough to make the tears start up again.

His hands and feet were numb. He flexed his fingers and wiggled his toes as best he could. He didn't know why he did that, either. He was going to die in this cave. Either when Holt and Armstrong returned to kill him, or when Holt and Armstrong _didn't_ return and he died anyway. He felt numb to that, too.

* * *

There was a lightening of the overwhelming blackness, in the direction of the chamber's entrance. Holt and Armstrong, no doubt, but there was the tiniest fragment of a chance that it was someone else. Miss Merton and Miss Carruth exploring. Men from Daniel's department, tipped off by Curtis somehow and scouring the estate for Daniel. Curtis himself.

Daniel listened intently. He'd call out as soon as he knew it wasn't Holt or one of the Armstrongs.

The deep gray wasn't fading, but it wasn't brightening either. He blinked. Still gray.

He blinked again. Gray.

He blinked again. Or maybe it had always been black.

* * *

Holt had been right; he couldn't tell when the sun rose, or how many hours it had been since he'd been forced down that dreadful descent and into this cave. But Daniel knew that it must have been some considerable time, because his bladder was achingly tight.

He delayed the inevitable as much as possible. He didn't think that a request to relieve himself would be met with much sympathy, but if he were lucky, Holt and Armstrong might return and kill him before it reached that point.

He squirmed as much as his ropes allowed, trying to ease the pressure. It helped a little.

But time passed and the ache in his lower belly deepened, and then deepened some more. At last the ache was supplanted by shooting pains, one after the other in agonizing succession, and Daniel dropped his head in defeat. He let go and wet himself like a baby, feeling sick with humiliation and unwelcome relief.

Some tears leaked out, as well, but he could scarcely mind those.

When he'd finished pissing himself, exhaustion slammed into him. It was a far more uncomplicated relief to let it carry him into sleep.

* * *

Curtis was standing in front of him, a lamp in his hand, strong and beautiful and shining.

"Curtis," Daniel choked out. "Oh God, Curtis!"

Curtis didn't answer. He kept looking at Daniel with his forthright gaze, but he didn't move, didn't speak.

Daniel was awake--he was almost certain he was awake. He could feel the tingling ache in his limbs, held for too long in the same position; he could feel the awful cold clamminess of his clothes (and shied away in his mind from fully recognizing _what_ , exactly, his clothes were wet with); he could feel the relentless drip of water on his head, two drops, three, four.

But it was impossible that Curtis could actually be no more than three feet from Daniel and not make a move to help him. Not Boys' Own Archie Curtis.

Daniel sobbed at the realization that he was alone after all, but he never took his eyes from Curtis. If he was going to die alone in this hellish place, then he would welcome whatever small beauty and comfort his delusional mind could give him before the end.

* * *

Curtis was gone, and Daniel was stone. He couldn't move his fingers any more, and his legs were cold, numb things that barely responded to his attempts to shift position.

He could still move his head, but that was worse than nothing. He would sit here endlessly aware, staring into that perpetual blackness, as his body solidified and fused with the rock behind and beneath and over and _all around_ him.

* * *

Daniel's head jerked up unconsciously. There had been something...an echo?

He hadn't heard anything but the sound of his own intermittent sobs in forever. There it was again, a little louder! Still too indistinct for him to make out what it was.

"Da Silva!"

Curtis's voice. Daniel opened his mouth to call to him, but what came out was a pitiful, mewling cry rather than anything approximating words.

A light approached--a real light, not just a deceptive graying of the endless black--and Curtis stepped through the entrance to the cave room.

Daniel watched him half-fearfully. This didn't seem at all like his previous vision of Curtis, but perhaps this was simply a better dream.

Curtis rushed towards Daniel and threw his arms around him. He felt almost hot against Daniel's cold body, and he was _speaking_ and not a silent, beautiful statue of himself, and Daniel let his head drop forward against Curtis's chest.

"Daniel?" Curtis asked.

Daniel made some sort of noise in his throat, trying to speak but failing miserably. Curtis pulled away, and Daniel would have cried if he'd had the strength, but Curtis didn't go very far. Just enough to take his chin in his hot, huge hand and tip it upwards.

"Daniel," he said again, almost pleadingly.

Daniel forced his eyes open and stared at him. "Don't be a dream," he prayed. "Don't. Please. Don't be--"

His stomach sank with despair; surely speaking his fear would make it come true, even if he couldn't have said anything else at that moment. But Curtis only said, "I'm here. I've got you. I'm not a dream."

He was still holding onto Daniel, still there, still himself, and Daniel finally let himself believe. "You came. Oh God, you came."

"You made me come," Curtis said, absurdly, and apparently Daniel had the strength to cry after all, because he burst into tears and buried his face in Curtis's chest once more. Curtis let him do it. He even held Daniel tighter in his arms--almost as tightly as Daniel could have wished--sheltering him from the weight of the cave and its awful drips of sediment-filled water. Turning him from stone to flesh once more.


End file.
